The Night Before
by claudius
Summary: Anime continuity. On the night before his 'campaign to the North,' Roy Mustang recieves a strange visitor. A story of guilt, revenge, forgiveness, and comraderie.


The Night Before…

By Claudius

I do not own the copyright of Full Metal Alchemist.

The clock on the wall struck half passed midnight. But in his office, Roy Mustang paid little attention to the late time. He sat at his desk, thinking over the events of the last few days, and the plans for the next. He looked the calm man, appearing quite bored in his thoughts. But any onlooker could be in error viewing this behavior as the truth. For this man was like a gun within a holster, hiding its danger inside a safe-looking exterior. The danger was indeed potent, for within Roy Mustang was a fire blazing higher and higher, ready for explosion.

Roy's eyes roved around his surroundings and possessions. Some were papers, like his many diplomas of his military recognition. Others were objects, like his medals. But his eyes were drawn to the pictures on his desk. One was a photo of Fuhrer King Bradley, his…superior. Another picture showed his younger days, posing in uniform with the late Brigadier General Maes Hughes. Next to it was another picture of just months ago, with Maes joyfully embracing his wife Gracia, who in turn was embracing their only child Elysia. There was a fourth photo, showing his subordinates Hawkeye, Havoc, Fury, and the others. Roy kept that portrait lying on its face. He would not think of them right now. Only the faces of his superior and his best friend would suffice. They were fuel. Looking at them strengthened the inner fire, its spark being vivid, emotional rage. Mustang allowed such malice. Let the hate burn strong, until it can destroy...

This was probably the last time he would possess this room. Tomorrow, Brigadier General Roy Mustang would head his first military campaign up North. But the rank was actually a sign of death for him. He knew too much, and was slated for assassination. Well, Roy decided with a rare sense of humor, Brigadier General Mustang would go as ordered.

The clock now hit a quarter before one. This late consciousness was becoming bad for his health, Roy realized. He had to rest for tomorrow. Might as well sleep in here. His death in this vicinity would cause so many questions. For now, in the Dragon's mouth, he would be safe. His head resting upon his arms, Mustang slept upon his desk. He began to dream of people. Hawkeye. Ed. Maes...

_Don't weaken_, Mustang's subconscious demanded order to be obeyed. _Don't weaken because of him!_ There was no time for any of that. He didn't break at the funeral. He kept together after learning the truth about Bradley. He can and will carry on for this. If he had to dream about him, dream instead of his absence, and the one responsible.

A creaking sound snapped Roy's eyes open. The door was opened. So tonight was his end? Bradley was getting sloppy. His head still buried in arms, Roy clenched his gloved fist, conveniently garbed before rest. A cup connected to the desk, its vibrations felt. Instantly did Mustang tip his seated self, chair and all, onto the floor. His lying position gave him full access to his assassin's identity. He thrust his hand upward.

"Whoa, hold it!" the assassin spoke, half in cry and whisper.

Mustang saw him. _Him!_ For one moment, a human sense of hesitation came like water on his fiery resolve. But it was a short effect. The fire was as brilliant as ever. This was a Homunculus.

The assassin spit out his words. "Remember when I told Dad I broke that antique of his? You did it!"

The words and remembrance flooded Mustang's mind. Stop it! He literally forced composition inside himself. His gloved fingers were ready to snap.

The opponent's lip then went into a display of movement, speaking without sound. Only a lip reader could recognize the words. Mustang's eyes solidified. His fingers remained touching, but no further movement was made. His mind had taken over his emotions. The silent secret revealed was too well guarded for any Homunculus to know. It was him: Maes Hughes!

"Geez, you forced me to bring that thing up..." This person sulked with unease over this memory they both shared. He backed away to a chair near the desk.

Getting up as defensively as he was able to, Mustang studied this figure before him. He was dressed casually in black with a pink shirt. It looked like Hughes. He had those lime-green eyes, partially blocked by square-rimmed glasses. There was that long nose, that great jaw and the whiskers that lined them. "You probably thought I was that morph Homunculus," This…lookalike casually spoke. "Which reminds me, if you ever see me again before this mess is over, don't hesitate to cremate me."

Mustang locked the powerful display of his feelings inside and out. No shock or awe must overwhelm him. His mind raced to a thousand ideas to receive the return of his best friend. Instead, he did nothing but say, "You're dead."

Hughes sat down upon a chair. "Yeah, I'm dead," his happy tone was entirely lacking of his present situation. "Not Homunculus-dead, brought-back-by-human-transmutation-dead. Just dead-dead." He opened his shirt, pulling down the undershirt beneath. His chest revealed a bleeding red wound. "See? Shot through the heart, by that shape-shifting bastard." This mark of death gave a sight of ill ease to Mustang. He remembered seeing it at the morgue. Buttoning his shirt back on, Hughes smiled. "Do you have a mirror?"

Warily, his eyes still on the figure, Mustang used one hand to take a glass out of the desk drawer.

"Look at the mirror's reflection of me."

Placed on the desk before him, Mustang made a second glance. He was forced to repeat this watch. For though he was facing Hughes before his own eyes, the looking glass showed only a chair and nothing else. However, just as his dead friend didn't behave like a dead man, Mustang's behavior was disappointing for someone meeting his closest comrade from beyond the grave. "You're a ghost?" he asked nonchalantly.

"More like a dream." Hughes had his pick.

Mustang's lips curved a dark smile. "No doubt to haunt me?"

"And why would I do that?" Hughes turned to a frown. His eyes intensified with delicious fury. "Oh, because it's your fault I'm dead? That I'd be alive with my wife and cute kid if I hadn't followed you?"

Mustang sighed calmly at the grim ideas he already knew, and perhaps will never banish from his conscience.

Suddenly, the vengeful frown on Hughes' lips bent upwards. "Nope. Sorry to disappoint you Roy." He fingered his glasses for adjustment. "I'm not gonna do that."

Confusion lined Mustang's brain. His face still kept a good poker face of disinterest. "Why not?" he asked, his tone tipping to an outburst.

"Because it was never your fault. If anyone screwed this up, it's me."

Mustang refused this interpretation. "You wouldn't have screwed up if I hadn't forced you to back me up in the first place."

Hughes shook his head. "Um, if I recall, Roy, I think I had a say in helping you. No one's responsible for this but me."

"Don't be so saintly," Emotion was burgeoning in Mustang's protest. "I remember once you telling me your fear of dying."

"And I hid it as a joke," Hughes deflated the incident. "So I had a moment of weakness! Every sane human has one. You put a gun to your head, remember?"

Mustang fell silent as if in defense. His responsibility was desperately protecting him from this side of truth. It cannot be so. And yet, it was really Hughes sitting before him, telling him something he should heed.

"It's equivalent exchange, Roy. I got a beautiful wife, a precious child, a good job…you fit in somewhere I guess." Hughes' face glowed, much to Mustang's own unease. "Except for the job, I never believed I really deserved any of it. Eventually, I realized that my own life had to be the price for that happiness."

Mustang kept at being unmoved. "I thought you didn't believe in that philosophy."

"Couldn't help it, spending time with weirdos like you." Hughes' happy expression then sank to a solemn face. "Besides, I never told anyone this, but…I saw the doctor before I died." His words trembled. "He said…I had a brain tumor. I'd be dead even if I never met that sonovabitch."

Mustang just glared unconvinced at this gray revelation.

Hughes went into a defeated sigh. "Okay, so I was joking." Suddenly, with all his conviction, he pressed his point. "Roy, it's not your fault I'm six feet under! Get that into your head! Okay?"

Mustang turned to the desk. "Is that why…you're here?"

"Well, there is something...I never got to say."

The two heads then faced each other in a minute of silence. Then Hughes spoke. "Juliet Douglas…"

"Homunculus." Mustang interrupted.

Hughes spoke again. "The wars…"

"Started to create a Philosopher Stone."

Hughes flattered his friend with a smile. "I knew you'd find out somehow."

"A bit too late." Mustang lacked enlightenment.

Hughes didn't approach that guilty remark. "There's another thing." A serious demeanor again appeared on his face. "I know what you're going to do about it."

Mustang was adamant to any deterring arguments. "Pretty much the other side knows." His eyes froze with a frightening stare on the mission in his thoughts.

By the look of his own face, Hughes was not wholly supportive. "Do you have the right to?"

Mustang's eyes grew questioning. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I know you, Roy," This time, Hughes' serious expression was not for play. "Tell me the reason you're doing this."

Mustang frowned. "We pledged our loyalty to the Fuhrer. He was supposed to support us. Instead Bradley had us go through these meaningless wars, killing people on both sides. He betrayed us all."

Hughes' eyes made a stare that could penetrate souls. "I said I want the truth, Roy."

Mustang's eyes expanded. His voice became edgier. "Fuhrer Bradley is a Homunculus. He and his kind will remain in power forever, continuing meaningless carnage unless I stop him."

Hughes did not budge for understanding. He budged instead for physical standing, narrowing his accusing glare. His voice also was louder, hitting its words. "The truth."

"You want…?" Mustang growled, his face ready for harsh retaliation. But the intensity forcibly dimmed. He turned his face away from his accuser, making a slurred revelation. "He ordered your death."

Hughes' voice was cool. "And I thought you had enough of killing for no good reason."

Mustang flinched at his accuser. _What did he mean by that!_

Hughes appeared undeterred by the fury he was igniting. "If you truly believed in the excuses," he coldly explained, "I'd be cheering you on for exacting justice. It would be nice to say that your true reason doesn't give me a problem. But I'm sorry, it's wrong."

Pressure building, Mustang contained all his energy to only respond with a false smile. "So I'm supposed to spare the Fuhrer then? Forgive and forget?"

Hughes was unyielding. "We both know that's not possible now. It probably never was. But revenge? I always saw in you a noble guy, Roy. What you want now is so beneath you. If this is for me, I don't want anything to do with it. Revenge is burning you up inside. It'll end up consuming you."

"Now it's my turn to apologize," said Mustang, kindness not his intention. "I don't feel like being a noble man right now. For years I carried on this façade of the loyal dog who saw his military rank more important than anything else. I hoped to fulfill our promise that I become Fuhrer and change this world. I…tried to think that…" He pressured himself to continue thinking about painful memories, "what I did before…was because I didn't know any better. I was wiser now. When you…died, I still believed in that reasoning as well as our promise. Everything would be all right one day, I kept repeating to myself. The end would justify all the terrible means. But new revelations have made me a fool again. The means are too much to accept. Bradley murdered you, and for weeks I gave him good reason to think he got away with it."

Mustang's obsidian eyes, his voice, his whole body; all quivered in regret and rage. "It's too late. I can't forgive him. I can't forgive myself either. And I don't believe in your forgiveness. You saved my life, Maes. You always looked out for me. Who was looking out for you? Not me. Never did. Remember at the academy, when they called you Mustang's dog? I gave you nothing but scraps. When your daughter was born, you made me her guardian in case something happened to you and Gracia. But I rarely visited your family. Never shared in your happiness. And because of me and Bradley, it's too late to ever do that!"

Mustang then contained the bitter anger that was coming out. Expecting a bitter consolation that he was right, Mustang turned to his friend for the punishment he needed. But he saw no recriminations on Hughes' face. There was also no claw-like grip in the tender hand his friend gave to his shoulder. "You were my best friend," Hughes spoke seriously, with eyes of soulful understanding. "That scrap was enough for me."

Mustang shrugged the remark. "I was the first friend you ever had. Of course you had to cling to me! If it were someone else, that guy would be your best friend, not me."

Hughes adjusted his glasses again. "I may be near-sighted, Roy, but I'm not blind. Suppose Archer was the first one? Sure, maybe I'd cling to him for a year or so, but after that we'd have to become a chimera in order to save that friendship."

In surprise, Mustang felt a need to chuckle.

"And don't sell yourself short. From the beginning you were a great buddy. Underneath this cold, arrogant, egomaniacal jerk is a very noble, compassionate, though still arrogant, egomaniacal jerk." He grinned. "Always wanting to do the right thing, always wishing to redeem the wrong things. I have no regrets helping you."

Before a realization of corniness crept into the quality of such words, Hughes quickly changed the subject, walking away. "This is really a new you, Roy. You were always the type who spoke through actions rather than words."

"I find it more comfortable speaking to dead people than living ones," Mustang replied.

Hughes cracked a chuckle. His hand went to the cup on the desk. He pressed it towards Mustang. "I brought some hot cocoa for you."

Mustang held the cup. It brought out better memories. "So I'm dreaming about this?"

"Knowing my culinary abilities, you're lucky this is a dream."

Mustang drank the cup.

"It's too bad you won't become Fuhrer after this," voiced Hughes. "You'd have made a great one."

Mustang placed the cup to the desk. He really hadn't considered the future, if he still had one. He looked to Hughes, who was now gazing toward the window.

"Elysia's probably in dreamland now. Probably thinking of me." Hughes peered with sorrow in his eyes. "She must be very sad and lonely these days. Gracia, bless her heart, must be doing the best for her. But she can't do it alone."

Guilt again solidifying, Mustang looked away. But Hughes' voice attracted him.

"Y'know, my daughter has such a beautiful face," Hughes continued, his voice lacking his usual 'doting daddy' tone in a matter like this, which somehow gave his words a special strength. "She could make any hard sacrifice worthwhile." Mustang's restraint weakened. He would face his friend for the guilt he had done to him. He saw in his dead friend's face sadness, but there was also relief. Despite the short time, Hughes was glad to have experienced such happiness with his family. When Roy locked eyes with Hughes again, the latter's expression transformed into a demanding one. "Yeah, Roy. It's too late for me. But it's not too late for you. And it's not too late for her."

Mustang didn't promise anything by face or word. He had other things to consider before he could think about this wish bestowed upon him.

Hughes quickly composed himself to another matter. "So, all for the coup tomorrow?"

Mustang nodded in resolve. "You got it."

"Just make sure it's for the right reasons. Do it to stop the bad guy, not because you're pissed off. And make it in one piece. You still need a wife."

Mustang kept the advice in his mind (except the last one).

But sadness remained on Hughes' face. "I guess that's all I have to say. About time this dream's over. It's time for goodbye." Hughes held out his hand.

Now did Mustang's face portray shock. "But…"

"Nothing's forever," said Hughes, his hand gesture coming closer. Mustang knew there was nothing he could do but accept it. He raised his hand as well. The hands began to touch, but Hughes abandoned the offer with a raised hand. A wicked smile fell on his mouth. "This _is_ a dream, so..." He grabbed Mustang by the shoulders and thrust him closer into an embrace.

And Mustang did not refuse. The words he wanted to say! But as usual for him, only actions would do. He hugged back, without hesitance, without restraint. Suddenly, there came a blackness…

He awoke. Mustering his senses, Mustang found the clock now said three o'clock. He looked around the room. Nothing was changed. There was no cup. No displaced mirror. No Hughes. It was all a dream.

Emotion now invaded his analysis. It was too short. The things he wanted to say. The regret…

The realization stabbed sharply into Roy. For the briefest of moments, the Brigadier General was overwhelmed, pressing himself closely to the desk. But the surrender was brief, becoming a restoration of fortitude that was ever his trait. Mustang's eyes fell upon the photograph of Bradley.

_Just make sure it's for the right reasons…_

Now his senses left him, taken over by irrational decision. He snapped his gloved fingers.

Flames engulfed the photograph slowly, to serve as a prediction for the subject's future. This small destruction was reflected in Mustang's eyes, vibrating with the monstrosity of a devil. The extinguished ashy remains were dumped into the wastebasket.

Sense finally returned to Roy Mustang, but gave no control or change. Only a realization of what he was doing, and a resolve to continue doing so. _Sorry Maes_, was the only line of remorse Mustang could make for his present actions. His path for atonement had already been set, its foundation created a day ago. He would rue it, maybe for the rest of his life. But the same would be said for the alternative of mercy. There was no way Bradley would get away for what he did.

It was time to leave. Mustang took his coat and paraphernalia for his campaign.

He looked around the room, with its many diplomas and pictures, evidence of his academic and military achievement, its medals of honor. Even more than his apartment, this room's collection signified his past. A past that would be swept away in consequence for what he was about to do. In that case, he might as well take everything that mattered to him.

With one hand, Mustang grabbed the group picture, and the two Hughes photographs. He made a glance on the last one of this two, spotting the child of his best friend. Then Roy Mustang left the room.


End file.
